


so casually cruel in the name of being honest

by only_partly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Cookies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Platonic BDSM, good boys try hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_partly/pseuds/only_partly
Summary: There’s not like. It’s not an official chain of people or anything. There’s not a group chat for “people who don’t want to see Kent Parson choke on his own vomit and die” or anything. But there’s a - like a daisy chain, maybe. Or a paper chain. Something a little more fragile - prettier, Adam would say. People to text, or call, just to be sure. One time Troy, sounding like he was eighty instead of twenty five, called it ‘Parse’s fuckbuddies and also Jeff Troy’. It’s not strictly accurate - Brandon knows for a fact Kent’s never slept with Nicklas Backstrom (not for lack of trying), and no one thinks having Sidney Crosby as the point person for a Kent Parson crisis is a good idea. Kent objects to a) there being any kind of chain at all in a non-sexy context and b) Jeff calling them ‘fuckbuddies’ because he says he only makes sweet sweet love to people and would never call someone a fuckbuddy.or, probably the most niche thing I've ever written, and I've done niche.





	so casually cruel in the name of being honest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angularmomentum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angularmomentum/gifts).

> i started this back in May, so we're pretending That Trade never happened and lows and rusty are still happily shacked up in Winnipeg. also, this owes a debt i can never repay to nat angularmomentum for the encouragement while i was writing it, and also for her frankly INCREDIBLE[#dirtbags series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/702858).

Hey, you call me up again just to break me like a promise  
So casually cruel in the name of being honest  
I'm a crumpled up piece of paper lying here  
'Cause I remember it all, all, all... too well

taylor swift, all too well

* * *

“Well.” Adam says.

“Shit,” Brandon agrees.

NBCSN is playing Jack Zimmerman lifting the Cup on repeat, an endless montage of the first NHL level player to come out with an even more endless grind of old white men looking serious dissecting his kiss with - presumably his boyfriend. And the effect it had on his hockey, and whether this would change his contract or his play going forward. Endless speculation with an edge of ‘of course we all _ knew - _’ that both of them can tell is going to make them madder than a spooked cat the second they don’t have larger concerns.

Or smaller, as the case may be. “You heard from him?”

“Not since last week.”

“Think he’ll come or should we go out there?”

Brandon hums, thoughtful. “Might not even still be in Vegas. The season’s over.”

Adam scoffs. “If he had off season plans we’d have gotten pictures of Kit in eighty different themed outfits and you know it.”

“Well, point.” Brandon pulls himself out of his slouch on the couch and stands up. “Okay. I’m calling Troy. You go buy cat food and enough stuff to make -”

“Eight kinds of cookies, I know.” Adam stands also, leaning in for a quick kiss before he slips into his awful Adidas slides that he genuinely likes, because he’s SUCH a bro. Obviously Brandon loves him anyway, but sometimes he watches him do things like wear socks and sandals with basketball shorts and feels like he’s getting smacked in the face with it. And then he drags him to their bedroom, because he’s not a hypocrite, and no one has to know Adam calling him ‘Rusty’ and smirking at him from under a backwards snapback gets him hard.

Okay, Brandon’s a little distracted watching Adam go, sue him. He pulls himself together as Jeff Troy’s voice in his ear just grimly says, “Yeah.”

“How bad is he?” Brandon asks. There’s not like. It’s not an official chain of people or anything. There’s not a group chat for “people who don’t want to see Kent Parson choke on his own vomit and die” or anything. But there’s a - like a daisy chain, maybe. Or a paper chain. Something a little more fragile - prettier, Adam would say. People to text, or call, just to be sure. One time Troy, sounding like he was eighty instead of twenty five, called it ‘Parse’s fuckbuddies and also Jeff Troy’. It’s not strictly accurate - Brandon knows for a fact Kent’s never slept with Nicklas Backstrom (not for lack of trying), and no one thinks having Sidney Crosby as the point person for a Kent Parson crisis is a good idea. Kent objects to a) there being any kind of chain at all in a non-sexy context and b) Jeff calling them ‘fuckbuddies’ because he says he only makes sweet sweet love to people and would never call someone a fuckbuddy.

(This is blatantly untrue, as one of Brandon’s most recent texts from Kent reads ‘FUCKBUDDIEEEEEEEE tell lows im texting the pic of his dick to his mom if he dosnt answer my text!!!!!!!!!’)

“He’s on my couch with Kit and enough vodka to put the entire Russian mafia on edge.” Jeff sounds tired. “He let me take some of it but he’d already had at least a bottle before he came over.”

“Could you get him on a plane?” Brandon moves to the kitchen, checking the fridge before putting Jeff on speaker so he can text Lows to pick up some red gatorade too.

“I’m not enabling your weird threesome thing,” Troy complains, but a second later Brandon can hear him asking Kent gently if he wants to go to Winnipeg. He can’t hear Kent’s response but in a minute Troy’s voice comes back, 

“He says fuck off if this is a pity fuck and he better be able to bring Kit.”

“Obviously. Lows is already getting her fancy-ass food, so he better not make us waste it.”

There’s a weird silence from the other end for a second, and Brandon glances at the screen to make sure they haven’t gotten cut off. “Swoops?”

“No, yeah, I’m here.” There’s the sound of a door closing gently before Troy goes on, “I - you sure you - I love Parse, but he’s - kind of a mess right now, man.”

Brandon glares at the picture of him and Lows and Ehlers, drunk off their asses and dressed up for a team Christmas thing, that’s pinned to the fridge with one of those novelty magnets shaped like a knife. “We know that.”

“The whole - the thing with Zimmerman and the Cup, it - it’s really got him fucked up right now.”

“Troy. Swoops. We _ know _ that. We saw it - that’s why we’re calling. Gotta get in before Giroux and the rest of Kent’s harem claims the privilege.”

There’s that same weird silence again, and then Troy sighs, heavy. “I still don’t think it’s respectful to call them that, for the record.”

“Holy fuck, dude.” Brandon says flatly, and Troy laughs a little.

“I already bought the ticket. I’ll get him on the plane in one piece - if anything happens to him while he’s with you -”

“We’re not gonna hurt your captain, Swoops.”

“Or my friend.”

“Our friend too, asshole.”

“I - yeah. I know. Okay. I’ll text you the flight details.”

“Awesome. Thanks man.” Brandon cuts the call as Troy is getting out a goodbye, shaking his head. Like this is their first time dealing with an out of control Parse. The call they’d gotten mid-way through the season last year from Nicklas Backstrom of all people is one he never wants to repeat and not just because Backstrom is one scary motherfucker. Parse had been in more of a manic state than they’d seen him in the almost of year of off and on fucking and hanging out when they’re in the same city. Brandon had tied Adam down on the bed and gotten behind Kent, both wrists in one hand as Kent rode Adam’s cock until both of them were in tears and then he’d let them come. Kent had sucked him off, afterwards, and in the hazy quiet of afterwards, face still in Brandon’s thigh, had admitted he’d gone to see his ex and it hadn’t gone well. They’d rolled him up in their fluffiest duvet and taken turns kissing him until he had cried himself out and gone to sleep. The conversation with Backstrom had happened ten minutes later, like he had some eerie eighth sense for when to make the call, and he’d managed to imply that if they ever hurt him OR told him Backstrom had called they would both be dead and none of their loved ones would ever find the bodies. Neither of them had been especially cheered by the text message Adam had gotten two minutes later from Ovechkin that just said ‘_ haha backy so serious )))) dnt fuck up !! _’

“Babe?” 

The door opening thankfully cuts off any more of Brandon’s reminiscing, and he hurries into the entryway, kissing the side of Adam’s jaw and taking one of the bags. “Find everything?”

“Yep. Got the wet and dry food in case Her Majesty’s in a snit, and got some litter too ‘cause I didn’t remember how much we had left. He still coming?”

“Yeah, Swoop’s putting him on a plane now. Should be here -” Brandon checks the email Troy just sent. “Four hours.”

“Awesome. I’m gonna start on some cookies then.” Adam kisses the top of Brandon’s head, right on his cowlick where his hair will never cooperate, and takes the rest of the bags into the kitchen.

They’d had an argument about the mixer, when Adam bought it. Not serious by anyone else’s standards, probably, but serious for them. Brandon knows they both make NHL money - Adam nearly as much as he does - but the thing was almost ten thousand dollars. They bake _ cookies _ every couple weeks. What was wrong with a Kitchen Aid? Adam had been sheepish but stubborn about it, flapping the pamphlet that came with it at Brandon and going on and on about the different speeds and timers and whatever and then the third time Brandon had said he just didn’t see the _ point _ Adam had scowled and said that _ fine _ he’d take it _ back _ if Brandon was gonna be like this about it. Then he’d stomped off into the bedroom and Brandon had been left feeling guilty about how different the disappointment in his face was compared to his excitement when he’d brought it in. He’d apologised, later, bringing the instructions for set up with him as a peace offering. Adam had softened at once, because he’s too good for Brandon’s sour ass, and of course then it turned out Adam had been looking around in a restaurant supply place and gotten suckered into buying this particular model by an eager sales girl and they worked on commission so he’d felt bad about not getting it by the end of the two hours she’d spent been showing him different mixers. Brandon had laughed and then kissed him and then they’d spent the rest of the night mixing things up in a different way. The instructions hadn’t survived; they’d had to buy another set off Ebay.

So. Anyway. The mixer stayed, and Brandon can admit it’s pretty nice, even if he’s never gotten a handle on all the fancy dials and timers. He can’t deny that the cookies Adam produces with it are pretty good too. 

“What kinds are we making?” He asks, unhooking Adam’s apron from its spot by the fridge and tugging it over Adam’s head. Adam obligingly bends down to assist. The apron has a picture of a whisk and says ‘Whip Me’ underneath it. Adam (and Kent) think it’s hilarious. Brandon might agree, once he stops going brick red every time they bring it up.

“Chocolate chip, obviously. Those ginger ones you like. And maybe, I dunno. Nutella or something.” 

“Sounds good. You putting quinoa in any of these?”

“Oh, don't even front - you know you loved those before you found out what was in them. Besides, the irony of you complaining because I made something more healthy is pretty wild, Rus’.”

“Bite me,” Brandon says mildly, which of course Adam takes as an invitation and leans in obligingly to set his teeth into Brandon's shoulder.

* * *

Four hours later the house smells incredible and there are eight racks of cookies cooling on the counter. They did best of three rock paper scissors to decide who would go pick Kent up from the airport before deciding it might actually be better to go together. They take the big comforter and the SUV.

Kent is clearly still drunk when he comes stumbling out of the arrivals gate, Kit’s carrier in one hand. His face brightens when he sees them standing there waiting for him. As soon as he's within arms reach Adam gathers him in, Brandon taking the carrier containing a _ very _ pissed cat. 

Sometimes Brandon forgets just how large Adam is, even with the good foot Lows has on him, but the difference between Adam and Kent is like Adam and. Well, a non hockey player. Also, Kent starts crying as soon as his face hits the brick wall that is Adam Lowry’s chest. Not the usual kind of drunken tears where it’s loud and performative and makes you wish they’d just shut up - he’s just leaking tears in a way Brandon’s never seen. it’s one thing to be fucked up over an ex and act crazy over it, but this is something completely outside of any frame of Kent-reference he has. Adam shoots him an alarmed look over Parse’s head, but his arms go around Kent automatically and he holds on tight. Brandon lays a hand on Kent’s head, the remnants of gel in it struggling to contain its usual disarray telling him it’s been too long since Kent showered.

“C’mon, bud,” he murmurs, “Let’s get you home, eh?”

* * *

They’d planned to get him settled on the couch, first, with some cookies and maybe tea, but the car ride back with Kent almost comatose in the backseat, clutching the comforter around him like it was the only thing between him and death by cold frozen wasteland, makes Brandon reconsider. He lets Kit out to sniff disdainfully at their furniture and the two varieties of food available to her.

“Bath first,” he murmurs to Adam as Lows gently pulls Kent out of the car, not bothering to unroll him or stand him on his feet.

Adam nods and takes him to their enormous bedroom. Kent shows his first signs of life at that, stiffening in Lows’ arms, but he settles at once when Brandon curls a hand around his ankle. “We’re not doing anything like that,” he promises, “Just gonna get you into a bath, okay? Have a sleepover.”

Kent nods. “Kit?” He asks, his voice hoarse. 

“She’s fine, babe. Her Majesty’s taking in the tour and turning up her nose at our dinner plan. Let’s get you comfy, yeah? Rusty’s gonna run you a nice hot bath - none of that ice bath shit tonight. And then we’ve got some cookies and that weird Russian tea you like.”

“‘s not weird,” Kent protests, but it’s weaker than it usually is. “Backy’s gonna murder you if you call his husband’s tea weird.”

“One, it’s terrifying that you call him that, and two, it’s even more terrifying that he lets you call Ovechkin his husband.”

“He loves me,” Kent says with the beginning traces of his usual confidence, and then his face crumples again.

“The weird part is I don’t think you’re wrong about that.” Adam squeezes Kent comfortingly, ignoring the renewed tears. “Come on, let’s get you out of these clothes, huh?”

“Buy me dinner first,” Kent grumbles, and Brandon almost bursts into tears himself at the normal chirping. He leans in and kisses Kent instead, tasting the salt on his lips and the chapped lips hot under his own. Kent blinks up at him as he pulls away and Brandon smiles at him as reassuringly as he can. 

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay, babe.”

Kent nods, eyes wet again, and he doesn’t say anything else as they get him in the (frankly obscenely large) bathtub. Brandon lets Adam start on his body as he dumps a handful of Adam’s extra-fancy shampoo in one hand and starts to work it into Kent’s hair. It’s thick under his hands, even with the flattening effect of the water, and Brandon hums quietly to himself as he gently clears away the majority of the suds before resuming what’s more of a head massage than a hair wash. It’s strange, Kent so passive underneath his hands; none of the buoyant life he knows and loves in him. It’s not until he goes to rinse out the lingering shampoo that he realises Kent is fully crying again, tears running silent down his face and dripping into the bath water. 

“Baby,” Adam says, looking helplessly at Brandon. “Kenny, babe, what can we - I’m so sorry, can I -”

Kent lets out a low moan that goes straight to Brandon’s heart and lodges there like a knife to the chest and twists to press up close to Adam’s wide chest. “Why wasn’t I - why wasn’t I _ enough _ ,” he sobs, one hand fisted in the front of Adam’s shirt and the other grasping aimlessly at the side of the bathtub. “He came out for _ Bittle. _What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I good enough? I should have - I should have done more - I should’ve quit hockey and - gone to college with him, or, or - made sure he got the captaincy, or -”

“Kent, babe, no, you were -” Adam swallows, and he’s started crying too, Brandon’s sweet boy, pressing his forehead to Kent’s and gently cradling his head in two enormous hands, “You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise, it wasn’t - none of this is your fault.”

Brandon grabs one of the enormous fluffy towels that might have originally been beach towels and holds it up for Adam, reaching out a hand to cover Adam’s on the side of Kent’s head. “Kent, none of this is on you,” he says, hearing the fierceness in his own voice and trying to tamp down his instinctive rage. This is about Kent, not how much he wants to beat the shit out of Jack Zimmerman. “_ None _ of it. It was - beyond shitty of Zimmerman to come out without - without warning you, or thinking about how you’d feel. You deserve to be upset about it.”

Kent turns to look at him, the bewilderment in his eyes clear. “No, he - we broke, broke up. And then I fucked it up more, just like I always do - I pushed him, and kissed him without asking, and then I - asked for too much, after, and I _ was _ too much, I know it, that’s why he - he picked Bittle instead, because he’s - he’s nice, and good at shit, and - Jack wanted to kiss him when he won, not me.”

“Sweetheart -” Brandon starts, and Kent flinches, a full body jerk away that almost pulls him out of the towel Adam has begun to wrap around him. “Kent,” Brandon amends, exchanging another worried look with Adam. “I know you’re - I know you don’t believe me right now, but - sometimes people just don’t. Work. Together. That doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you. And babe, you’re nice.”

Even still crying, Kent’s ‘quit shitting me’ expression is on point, and Brandon laughs. “Okay, okay. You’re not nice, exactly. But you’re kind, and that’s even better.”

“Hey,” Adam says, rubbing his hands firmly up and down Kent’s be-toweled arms. “Rusty’s right. You’re kind, and really fucking good at a lot of shit, okay, and - and - you’re _ good _. So fuck nice.”

That makes Kent laugh, albeit a kind of choking one that sounds a little more like a sob, but Brandon will take it. “Come on,” he says, a little softer, “Cuddles and cookies and hot chocolate, and we can watch one of Adam’s dumb movies and not think for a while.”

“That sounds - that sounds good.” Kent seems to realise he’s literally swaddled and in Adam’s arms like a giant baby and tries to sit up, indignant. “And I can walk, thanks.”

“Nope.” Adam’s arms tighten around his burden and he smirks in that way that makes Brandon sort of want to smack him but mostly just bite at his mouth until he can’t speak any more. “You’re stuck, bud. One hundred percent beauty status this week. No doing anything yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Kent grumbles, and Adam laughs, leaning down to nuzzle his nose against Kent’s. 

“Not that either. Strictly bro-ing it up tonight.”

“Handjobs are bros.” Kent says, clearly hopefully, and Brandon shakes his head. He’s smiling, but he’s serious too. He’d seen the way Kent had reacted when he thought they were taking him to bed. Time enough for that later. 

“Keeping it PG tonight, babe. We’ll see how things are tomorrow.”

* * *

Things tomorrow are...better. Sort of. Kent is awake before either of them and seems determined to make up for his break down the night before by being an absolute pain in the ass, and not in a fun way. He winds Kit up until she’s dashing madly around the house and clawing at ankles without any provocation, as opposed to her normal ‘barely any’ provocation ankle attacks.

He makes them all ‘breakfast’ - smoothies, very green and kale tasting, and leaves the remnants of it all over the kitchen, dripping green sludge onto one of the counters. He turns on the TV to House Hunters and wanders around interrupting Adam and Brandon instead of actually watching it.

He’s in the shower, Britney Spears turned up to mach-12, singing along with the door open, and Adam looks at Brandon. “Do we -”

Brandon shakes his head, rinsing out the cloth he’s using to scrub at the counters and turning to go over them again. “Just gotta ride it out, I think.”

“Right, yeah. I just.” Adam hesitates, leaning against the fridge. “I wanna make sure he knows we love him, but some of this shit, it’s like. He’s not twelve, you know.”

“It’s a good point.” Brandon pauses going over a particularly stubborn stain and leans over to kiss Adam. “I’m really proud of you, by the way. You’re so good at taking care of Kent and of me. Don’t forget to tell me if you need something too, eh?”

Adam ducks his head, familiar flush staining his cheeks, but he gets out a, “Yeah, okay.”

Kent picks this moment to wander out of the shower, rubbing at his hair with a towel. He’s not wearing anything else. “I’m _ so _ bored,” he announces, dropping his towel on the floor. “What are we doing today? Can someone suck me off?”

Brandon glances down at the towel and then looks at Kent’s fingernails. His first finger is bleeding, fingernail ripped off, and the others look worried to a similar point. “We’ll see,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Right now I want you to pick up that towel and go put on boxers and then wait by the couch.”

Kent opens his mouth, looking like he’s going to protest, but Brandon gives him a stern look, and Kent seems to deflate, bending over to pick up the towel and going back to the bedroom.

Adam watches him go, looking a little worried, but also just watching because. Hockey ass. “I thought we weren’t having sex?” He says, low.

“We’re not.” Brandon finishes with the counter and tosses the cloth toward the sink. It lands on the faucet. Close enough. “I’m gonna put him down, though. You can kneel too, if you want.”

Adam hesitates. “I mean, I always wanna kneel for you. I don’t know if I can - I might not go under, especially not if he can’t.”

“I think I can get him down.” Brandon tilts his head back against the kitchen wall, sighing. “But it - yeah, it might be a little harder than usual. He’s wound so tight, though. I might use you, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh.” Adam’s gone red again, but the stirring in his loose joggers clearly indicates how little he minds. Brandon waits, though, until he gets a mumbled, “Yeah, sure” before he nods and goes after Kent to the bedroom. Kent’s standing staring into Adam’s dresser, looking a little bewildered.

Brandon steps up behind him and curves an arm around his waist, tugging a little until Kent’s weight relaxes against him. “What’s up, bro?”

“I didn’t bring any boxers,” Kent says, tilting his head up against Brandon’s chest to look at him, “And Lows’ are gonna be huge on me.”

Brandon laughs. “Just shorts or sweats are fine, babe. I just didn’t want you to get cold.”

“Oh yeah?” Kent smirks. “You gonna keep me half-naked for a while?”

“Actually, yeah.” Brandon keeps his voice steady. He’s not going to do this if Kent hates the idea, even if he thinks it’ll really help. “I was thinking about playing a bit. No sex, not right now, but just - sometimes Adam kneels for me, when one of us is really stressed. I thought we could do that, if you wanted.”

Kent frowns. “I’m not broken,” he snaps, “You don’t have to keep avoiding sex like you think I’m going to snap in two if you kiss me.”

“That’s not - I don’t think you’re broken, Kent.” Brandon feels Kent’s stomach muscles, tense against his arms, but he doesn’t break his hold. “I think you’ve been through a lot of shit, and I want to help you feel better about it, even just for a bit. And the no sex thing is as much for me as it is for anyone - I never want sex when I’m upset. Ask Lows if you want.”

That makes Kent pause, fingers shifting a little like he’s thinking about tucking a couple in between his teeth again. Brandon takes both Kent’s hands in his own, twining their fingers together. “Let me help you,” he says, quiet.

He feels more than sees Kent slump against him, the resistance in his body going out as he leans heavily into Brandon. “Okay.” He says, and then again, more quietly, “Okay.”

* * *

Brandon decides against any kind of heavy bondage for now. He wants to be able to get Kent out fast if he starts to panic, and even with scissors it’s longer than just unsnapping a pair of cuffs. He pulls out the nice lined ones, because if he’s any judge Kent’s going to be pulling, a couple lengths of rope, and the first aid kit.

Adam’s eyebrows go up when he sees it, but he doesn’t say anything, keeping his position where he’s knelt next to the couch, the thick rug they bought on purpose for this gentle on his knees. Kent is lounging on the couch, because of course he is. Brandon sits down next to him, reaching for one of his hands.

Kent looks surprised, glancing at the cuffs. “I don’t - do you want me to kneel?”

“Not yet.” Brandon flips open the first aid box with his free hand and pulls it closer. “Do you want Spiderman or Black Panther bandaids?”

“I - what?” Kent huffs a laugh. “Dude, it’s not like - you can’t fix this with a bandaid and a kiss.”

“Not whatever’s going on in that head of yours,” Brandon agrees calmly, “But I can fix this, maybe.” He holds up Kent’s hand like he’s about to kiss it. Three more of his fingers have slow blood seeping from under the nails. Kent flushes hard, and Brandon does kiss his hand, then, avoiding the tips of the fingers. 

“Uh. Black Panther, I guess,” Kent mumbles, not looking up.

“Good choice,” Brandon looks at Adam, still kneeling patiently, and asks him to help. Between the two of them they get _ seven _ out of ten fingers cleaned and slathered with antiseptic ointment and adorned with bandaids. Adam doesn’t say anything the whole time - he usually doesn’t, when he’s trying to get in the right headspace, but he does silently kiss Kent’s other hand and then the side of Brandon’s knee before he sinks back into his resting pose.

Brandon closes the box and puts it to one side. “I’m not going to do anything we haven’t done before,” he says directly to Kent. “I’m going to cuff you, and probably pull your hair a bit. I might have Adam help me with a couple of things, but I’ll let you know beforehand if I do. I want you to keep your eyes shut for me, okay? And no talking unless you need to tap out. Clear?”

Kent nods mutely, clearly trying so hard to be good that Brandon can’t help but lean forward and kiss his forehead, rubbing a thumb along one cheekbone as he does. “Good boy. Go ahead and kneel.”

Brandon fastens the cuffs around Kent’s wrists, slipping a finger underneath to check the tightness, and then picks up the rope. “I’m going to keep your hands behind your back for a bit, and then I’ll change it so you can lie on your stomach, but first I want to do a futo tie on your legs. Blink twice for me if that’s green.”

Kent’s eyelids drift closed twice, slowly enough that Brandon is glad he decided on this, first. He beckons Adam closer and tells Kent, “I’m going to start the futo now, babe. Adam’s going to help me so I can get it nice and tight; I know you like it when the marks last for a while.”

Kent doesn’t respond beyond a slight fluttering of his eyelashes, but as soon as Brandon’s made the first hitch, he feels a quick tensing of muscle, like Kent’s trying the strength of Adam’s hands on his shin and thigh. When the only response is Adam’s immovability and another loop and hitch, he sighs, the sound of it heralding his head dropping to rest on Adam’s shoulder. Brandon strokes over the nape of his neck, lingering over the fine hairs there and having to take a few deep breaths himself before he can go on with the tie. The surge of protectiveness he expects; it’s why he’s a good dom. The wealth of tenderness, though, that’s something that’s been mostly saved for Lows until now. No one is saying Zimmerman didn’t have a right to his own happiness, but Brandon doesn’t know Zimmerman, and Zimmerman isn’t the one who sobbed himself to sleep last night in Adam and Brandon’s arms because he felt like he wasn’t good enough. 

“Good boy, Kent. You’re being so good for me; you’re perfect.”

Kent flinches, head coming up a little as though in protest, but at a nod from Brandon Adam is settling one big hand on the back of his head and pulling it back down to his shoulder. Brandon finishes the noose on the last hitch and starts on the other leg. Despite living with all the sun anyone could ever want, Kent is still far paler than Brandon - though not as pale as Adam, Irish motherfucker that he is - and Brandon can already see the marks from the rope settling into his skin. He keeps up his litany of praise, weaving the words in and under the rope ties and hopes it goes deeper than the bite of the rope. 

He finishes and stands, shaking out his hands and taking another breath before he sits on the couch, gently nudging Adam back until he can resituate Kent between his legs, pulling Adam close for a thank you kiss before he settles a hand in Kent’s hair.

“We’re going to sit for a bit,” he says, keeping his voice low, “You and Adam are both going to just kneel for me and be quiet for a while, and then I’ll untie your legs and change your cuffs and we’ll put you on your stomach with Adam on top of you while we watch a movie, and then after the movie we’ll have lunch.”

He double checks the cuffs after he takes off the rope, running a thumb over the basketweave marks pressed deep into Kent’s skin, but the skin underneath is only faintly red. He settles Kent on the couch, because Adam’s weight is too much for him to be pressed into the floor despite the heavy carpet, and stretches Kent’s arms over his head, leaving them only loosely locked together but leaving one of his hands on the linking chain and the other still in Kent’s hair. He also checks in on Adam, who seems to be hovering somewhere between subspace and his default more boisterous self.

Lows is certainly aware enough to pull him in for another kiss, causing Brandon to shake his head at him a little, but kissing him again to make sure he knows he’s not in any trouble. Then he turns on Disney’s Descendents, because Adam isn’t going to say anything and Kent isn’t allowed to say anything. A little to his surprise, though, Kent doesn’t even try. He waits for Brandon to tell him he can open his eyes, and then he simply lays there, the only motion he makes to curl his fingers into Brandon’s palm. Brandon takes the hint easily, gathering both slim hands in his own and pressing firmly. 

Halfway through the movie Brandon pauses it, gesturing Adam up and helping Kent to sit as well. “You did _ so _ well for me, love. So good, Kenny. Would you like the cuffs off now? You can speak.”

Parse licks his lips, pulling his hands back towards him a little protectively. “Can I - could I just keep them, for a while?”

“Of course.” Brandon squeezes Kent’s hands again. “Do you want to sit with me, or with Lows, or would you rather lie down again?”

“Can I -” Kent gestures a little shyly. “In your lap, if Lows doesn’t mind?”

Adam shakes his head, already slipping to kneel by Brandon, leaning his head on Brandon’s thigh and smiling up at Kent. Brandon arranges Kent in his lap, tugging one of the throw blankets over and wrapping them both in it before starting the movie again.

Parse is just as quiet for the rest of it, laughing a little at the over-the-top moments, but not in the mean sarcastic way he would have two hours ago. Brandon will count this as a win. By his feet, Adam looks like he’s coming back up, paying less attention to Brandon’s hand in his hair and more to the movie. By the last scene, Kent is poking Adam repeatedly in the shoulder with one foot and Adam is growling and pretending to bite it, but Kent is smiling and the restless nervous energy from before is gone.

Parse lets him take the cuffs off after the movie, even if his expression is still a little reluctant, and Brandon kisses the inside of both wrists and promises he can have them back that night, if he wants. 

Kent brightens perceptibly and asks, some of his old mischief in his voice, “I can wear ‘em while you and Lows double team me, yeah?”

“We’ll see,” Brandon says repressively, but he has a feeling it isn’t really fooling either Kent or Adam, and honestly if Kent is feeling well enough to tease, they probably could have some kind of sex tonight. First, though, he has some calls to make while Adam makes lunch, with Kent’s very dubious help.

The first one is to Swoops, who wants a complete rundown of the last twenty four hours, except for the kink stuff (“listen, it’s whatever makes you guys happy, but it freaks me the hell out and I don’t want to know, okay?”), and then to Giroux, who’s sent him about twenty texts in the last two hours, to tell him that they’re keeping Parse at least another two days before he gets him, and then the hardest one: to Nicklas Backstrom, because he _ does _ want a complete rundown on the kink stuff. 

Nicklas answers with a flat, “Do not let him have sex with you.”

“We haven’t,” Brandon says, feeling a little insulted. “I know better. With all his - weird shit, I wouldn’t. We wouldn’t.”

“Good.” Nicky seems to relax a bit, not that Brandon can ever really tell. “You’ll probably have to remind him to eat and drink and probably sleep, too.”

“Not a problem,” Brandon tells him, “He just had a little rest on the couch while we watched something.”

“He stayed still that long?” Nicky’s voice is heavy with skepticism. 

“Well, he had Adam on top of him, and he was cuffed.” Brandon can’t help smiling a little. “And he’s still got beautiful marks from a futo tie while he was kneeling for me.”

“Good.” Nicky says.

Brandon’s a good dom, okay, like he’s done his research. He’s pretty experienced. But getting praise from Nicklas Backstrom - like one of the kids on the team would say, that shit hits different. “Thanks. He seems - better, after that. About to have some food. He’s asking for sex, though. I know you and Alex don’t, but I’m thinking we’ll play it by ear the next couple days before we send him off to Giroux.”

Nicky hums, sounding faintly disapproving. Brandon isn’t sure if it’s directed at Giroux, sex, or the idea of Parse having sex with them and Giroux. Or sex in general. Whatever, though, that’s Nicky’s business, along with why exactly he and Ovi have never had a threesome with Parse. Rumor has it they’ve had one with Sidney Crosby, of all people, so maybe they just only do it when getting the third into bed is a challenge. Brandon’s honestly not sure he’d be able to keep it up with Nicklas Backstrom staring into your soul from one side and Alex Ovechkin jangling like he’s about to ruin your entire night with an enormous hit on the other. Some things are harder to leave on the ice. And speaking of which.

“I’m gonna go make sure he gets enough to eat.” Brandon says. “Can you let the rest of the group know he’s okay? Maybe tell them to work out the rest of the off season with Giroux and Troy?”

“I can.” Nicklas pauses, and then says again, “You did good work, Tanev. I’ll call you about plans for Zimmerman when the season starts.”

“Whoa, hey, what -” _ plans _, Brandon means to say, but Backstrom’s already hung up. Okay. Well. Hopefully it’s like, putting tape on his blades or Kool Aid in his showerhead, because Brandon loves Parse, but he’s not up for ritual dismemberment, or whatever Nicklas Backstrom and his weird pack of vaguely feral wolves decides is appropriate punishment. 

Then he shrugs, slipping his phone back into his pocket. That’s months away, and probably Ovi or Crosby can talk him out of outright murder. Right now he’s got a friend to take care of, a hot boyfriend to kiss, and about eight dozen cookies to eat. The rest of life can wait.


End file.
